Family Line
by LexaCavan
Summary: Let's pretend that all we know about Damian is that he is Sherlock Holmes's son.  Nothing else has been written about him except that his mother is Irene Adler.  Now let's pretend Damian has a hard-headed twelve year old daughter...


The Request

Willa scraped the last bit of mud off her face with her damp shirt sleeve and tried to straiten out her clothes. At the last minute she ducked behind a bush and removed her long-sleeved shirt, shook the dirt out of it violently and stuffed her thin body back into it before rising cautiously and moving on. The large stone cottage was quickly coming into view. She had seen it so many times but never had she considered actually knocking on the door.

The time had come.

Firm determination had driven her step up until this moment, but now that swift gait faltered, and she felt the fear begin to wedge it's way into her chest, tightening her lungs until they almost refused to work. She felt her head begin to spin again, and her hands grew clammy with sweat. The fear was almost tangible, and even more so as she stared at the thick oak door at the front of the house she had set her hopes in. What if he wasn't there? What if he was? What if he wasn't alone? What if he was? What if he chased her out with a revolver? Even that would be better than raw, cruel scorn. She hesitated, fear locking up her legs completely as she stood, feeling like a homeless orphan on the steps of the Queen's palace itself. Her bare ankles felt cold from the constant air on them. The ragged shoes she'd traded the boy for yesterday barely covered her feet and the trousers were more like knee britches, leaving her legs bare halfway to her knee. The thin shirt she wore over the undergarments she'd put on three days before had barely done anything to protect her from the elements, or the mud. She felt filthy, beyond filthy. How could she even walk into the front door?

He rounded the corner swiftly but stopped short at the sight of the person standing at his front walk. A young boy was having a small panic attack in his front yard. How curious. No, damn his aging senses, it was a girl.

Not the first time he'd made that mistake.

The girl was ragged, dirty, obviously exhausted, and obviously not accustomed to such a state. Her skin was too clear, hands too well kept and posture too strait. She was on the lam, perhaps? Or on a mission. The fear in her eyes began to slowly replace itself with strong-willed intent. And slowly. And surely, she began to step towards the door. Her firm steps slowed and stopped just before she reached it, and she inched forward after a moment, lifted her knuckles, stopped, lifted them again, and finally knocked very softly. She stepped back and bit her lip, winced when her teeth touched the cut that bisected both lips and then swallowed hard when the door opened. He could hear Mrs. Hudson's calm voice, barely revealing her shock – and no doubt her concern – at the sight of the girl. The girl's voice faltered for a moment, and then she finally got out. "Please, Ma'am, I'm sorry to disturb you but… is Mr. Holmes available? For a moment?" She added uncertainly. He heard his loyal housekeeper reply, and watched the girl stepped uncertainly into the house.

Willa stood in the middle of a large room. It had once been more than one room, it appeared, but had been opened up to serve many purposes. The age-old walls on the outside of the house held a gathering of furniture around the fireplace, a desk piled with papers and folders of various sizes and shades of beige. The floor beside the desk was littered with a half-filled box and curious bits of a motorcycle. At the other end of the room sat the dining table, and then, most importantly, books. Willa felt herself drawn to them. She allowed her eyes to rest over the titles, some familiar, some not. In her short twelve years she'd read far beyond her share of books, and she marveled at the calm that settled over her as she breathed in the light smell of paper and glue and ink that was the essence of the things themselves. Something heavy appeared nearby; a presence, and that was all she knew. The calm shattered. She turned with a gasp and nearly tripped over herself as she jumped back half a step to avoid running into a tall, thin man. His sharp grey-blue eyes were so familiar and yet so strangethat they terrified her to the core.

"M- Mr. Holmes. I'm so sorry to disturb your afternoon, sir." She managed to get out, even as she struggled to straighten herself and stop cowering in front of him. He was at least an inch taller than her father!

"And you are?" He asked with mild disinterest.

"I…Willa. I'm Willa." She announced simply.

He studied her for a long time. She willed her head to tilt upward, willed her shoulders to straighten and gathered every scrap of courage she had left to meet his strong gaze. Finally he gave a cryptic, internal nod and then turned away from her, heading toward the seating near the fireplace. She barely noticed the wave of his hand that seemed to command her to follow him and sit down at the same time. She moved hesitantly, suddenly realizing that the housekeeper was nowhere in sight, that she had maneuvered herself to be alone with this man whom she'd never known. What sort of man was this, anyway? In reality?

"I perceive you are more than you appear. This is not your customary style of living." He said with a nod at her soiled clothing, worn shoes, dirty ankles and hands. She bowed her head in shame for a moment before responding. "No sir, it is not."

"And you have only lived in England for two years."

"I know my accent is weak. I lived in America…but you already know that."

"I say again, who are you?" He would not be put off any longer. She took in the size of the man, the strength in his hands, resting lightly on the arms of his chair. She listened intently for the sounds of anyone else in the house. Finally a faint vibration from the direction the housekeeper had gone sounded through the house, and she felt some surge of comfort.

"I'm…Wilhelmina Frances Adler, sir." She said, not daring to look at him. She studied her hands instead. Only slightly more graceful than her own father's. When she finally dared to look up, Holmes was staring at her intently.

"Damian's daughter?" He asked incredulously. "Yes...I see him in you."

"Yes, sir. I…was born in prison. My mother was a nurse in the hospital there. My father…as you know…." She stopped, uncertain of where to go from there.

"I was told he was released."

"He was, sir, he and my mother went to America, to her family. It was only two years ago that Grandmother wrote."

"Irene." It was only a word, and yet he spoke it with such intensity that Willa found herself scrutinizing his steel gaze. After a moment she responded.

"Yes, sir. We came to England to help her. She said she was dying and she wanted her son, wanted to make amends, so we came here for a little while only…father ended up staying on and then…."

Suddenly it broke, something deep, deep down. The strength that had gotten her here disappeared, and she felt the whole story spilling out in a flood of words and emotion. He took in every syllable. "…and then mother died in the fire and father was missing and they put me in an orphanage, until grandmother had me taken out and brought home and father was in the hospital, but then Grandmother's illness caught up with her and she died too, and father was too weak, and then they came and started threatening him. Photographs, they always want photographs. And if it weren't for stupid photographs neither of us would be in this mess to begin with because he would never have existed, but he does and now they've taken him and if I just knew where the damn things were I'd give them to them and then father and I could go back to America and pretend everything is alright again." She jumped to her feet then, only to fall to her knees in front of Holmes. "But I can't do it by myself. I don't know how to find him, and the police won't help. NO ONE will help, but please, sir, please just because he's got some of your chromosomes, please, sir, for any reason that works, please help!"

And the flood of words ended with the soft thump of her forehead hitting the front of his chair. The tears that dampened the upholstery were such an embarrassment to her that she cried all the more and continued to cry until she felt a strong hand cup the back of her head and looked up, tear-streak revealing the dirt she'd failed to wipe away.

"Your father is my son." He was saying in a low, even tone. "I knew that when I looked at you. Let me make some phone calls." Her head sank again as he rose and called to Mrs. Hudson. "You have some rest while I talk to Mycroft, and then we shall compare notes."

She jumped to her feet. "Then…then you'll…help?"

"I haven't had a case in some time." He saw something in her face fall a bit, but the hope was still there. The housekeeper appeared then, and led her away to the guest room. After the woman had coaxed her out of her dirty clothes she gathered the things up and left the girl to the thick eiderdown quilts on the featherbed, and a deep, dreamless sleep.


End file.
